


That Which Is Endless

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Just trolling, Middle Ages, Slow Conquest, Targaryens had no dragons, poetic injustice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Lyanna Stark refused to believe anyone could be idiotic enough that to engage in such folly as that which presented itself before her eyes seemed acceptable. Unfortunately for her, her lack of belief did not matter all that much in the grand scheme of the utter moron who'd decided that, aye, stealing from lions was, in fact, a brilliant idea.AU! Lyanna's wedding was rudely interrupted by a power-hungry warlord whose impunity was only matched by his delusions of grandeur. Alas, he offered a bargain and she had to buy her father time.





	

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna winced as the hard body above hers compressed her into the mattress, forcing her lungs to expand in an effort to drag in air. The soft snores filling her ear would have been insulting had she the capacity to do aught other than be stunned at the underwhelming force of the moment.

There she was, a bride wedded, bedecked in frills and sweet-smelling flowers, upon the threshold of chance. And her husband slept. It was not even that he slept she took issue with. He’d not done his duty. His sole duty for the night. Her eyes roamed to the ceiling, resting upon the greyness. The pain was growing stronger by the minute. If only he’d taken his sword with him as well.

His grandfather had been the Toothless Lion. This one was forsooth the Sleep Addled Lion from what she’d gathered. Might be if she pushed him gently to the side and crawled out from beneath him. Surely that would not result in his falling over and smashing his head open upon the bed’s edge. Although, the mote she considered the notion, the more appealing it became. “I should have just asked His Majesty to give me his second son,” she muttered. At least Tyrion Lannister deformed child that he might be, would not squash her to dust.

Fingers flexed against the man’s naked chest, palms pressing into hard muscles. Then she pushed, with a groan, loud as the thrill of the lutes. To think she would be stuck with this man for the rest of her days. Father should be kneeling at her feet, thanking his lucky star she loved her people as well as she did. Jaime Lannister, the Young Lion.  And when the morn came he would take care of matters in a hurry. Men and drink. Men and their utter stupidity. “You are stupid,” she told her most recent enemy as she managed to free herself. “This wedding is stupid. And by the gods, you shall know how very much come sunrise.” Her threat was met with a loud snore.

Moving to the edge of the bed, she swung her legs over. The thin chemise was doing as little as it promised to do with its appearance against the elements. But she was going to have some wine, if it killed her. Why should her husband be the only one partaking in the joys of being a sot? She was a wife now, a woman grown, able to breed and, aye, to enjoy a cup of wine.

Her hand was upon the pitcher when the door swung open, a shrill cry flying from her lips as the blasted thing turned upon its hinges. Apparently, that was all it would have taken to wake her spouse for she caught sight of his form moving with disorientation as he fell over. Under any other circumstances she would have been amused.

Given, however, that a man in armour stood in the doorway, she somehow found the wherewithal to help herself. With great difficulty, it had to be noted. The intruder did very little to force attention upon the very broad sword he carried. Dripping blood falling to the floor did it admirably for him.

Dripping blood. Lyanna felt her eyes grow wide and her mouth fall into a slack round shape. Who would attack during a wedding?

There was only one possible reply. Of course there would be only one. Before she could assess the truth of such an assertion, her husband somehow managed to climb to his feet and lunge into an attack. More the fool him, for his opponent exerted little effort into knocking Jaime back reeling.

Time seemed to slow. So much so that her mind managed to give her two options. She could jump to her spouse’s defence, and possibly have a sword thrust through her stomach. Or, she could run for the high hills, hope her brothers were alive and try to escape with her life. A debate for the philosophers.  She coiled, glancing towards the attacker to make certain he was otherwise occupied with a struggling Jaime, and then she sprang dashing past him.

A yell followed her without into the hall, but she saw little beyond the towering soldier blocking her path. His arms were spread wide open. Lyanna crashed into him, for she had neither time, nor inclination to put her run to swift end. Graciously of him, her captor, instead of taking a swing, locked her in a tight grip against his chest. “Caught her,” he called, presumably to the other man with whom he was in league to kidnap a woman on her wedding night from all appearances.  Had she imbibed too much watered wine? “Don’t struggle.”

“Don’t struggle?!”  She pushed fiercely against him, which was as naught to the towering moron. “Why not tell me not to cry for help while you’re at it?”

“That is a fair point,” came a voice from behind her. “Be quiet, woman.”

Slack-jawed, she obeyed. For all of a split-second. “You be quiet!” she snapped, a habit she’d developed during a life-time or arguing with her brothers. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Short, loud and profoundly irritating is what you are. Now be silent.” This was not happening. She was not getting herself kidnapped on her wedding night. It was simply a hallucination, some maddening night terror sent to punish her for unkind thoughts. “Come along nicely, and we’ll see that your brother is still alive come sunrise.”   

“What have you done to him, you filthy–“

“Naught yet. But that can be remedied.” Her mouth snapped shut at the threat. “Consider his safety a wedding gift, if you would.”

“I am already wedded,” she pointed out.

“You never spoke any vows; you cannot be wedded.” Filthy fiends and delusional beside. How thrilling her wedded life was turning out to be.

“I beg to differ,” Lyanna dared.

“You’d best not,” the other man finally spoke up.

“Aye. You’d best not have spoken any vows.”

 

 

 

 

 

       

**Author's Note:**

> Trying all the tropes under the sun.
> 
> N.B.: Targs never had dragons => they did not conquer Westeros in one go.


End file.
